


Fugue in Blue

by Skyepilot



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Art, Awkward Conversations, Corny, Coulson is a history buff, Coulson is sentimental and romantic, Daisy always being hungry, Daisy being impulsive, Daisy being obsessed with research about Inhumans, Daisy loves that Phil is corny, Daisy preserving Inhuman culture, Eating, F/M, First Kiss, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Heist, Humor, Inhumans (Marvel), Male-Female Friendship, Museums, Phil in awe of Daisy, Romance, SJW Daisy Johnson, Sexual Humor, Touching, Unresolved Romantic Tension, famous Inhumans throughout history, makeouts in closets, mentions of art history, mentions of past relationships - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 17:13:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6433144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyepilot/pseuds/Skyepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the vague future, this is one I started and didn't know where I wanted it to go then got tumblr feels.  Daisy researches people in history she thinks are Inhumans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fugue in Blue

 

“I can't believe it.”

“He tries to follow, but isn't exactly, and turns over his shoulders to where her eyes have landed.

“That,” she says, pointing at the urban bus stop. “The art.”

He sees the notice for the museum exhibit. “I had no idea you were interested.”

“I've been looking through the Codex,” she explains. “Trying to piece together our history.” Her face is a study in concentration as she types into her phone, then she looks up excitedly. “It's only a few blocks from here. We can walk.”

He studies her for a moment, her growing impatience, and finds himself wanting to indulge her because he so rarely can. This last mission was a flop, trying to get a lead on Andrew through one of his old uni connections.

“Okay.”

“ _Great_ ,” she says, distracted, texting away. “I'll let May know we’ll be in touch when we're done.”

“So tell me about this,” he asks as they walk down the sidewalk, enjoying the cool night air.

“I think the artist was Inhuman.”

“That _is_ a very specific shade of blue,” he teases.

“Phil, history is filled with Inhumans hiding in plain sight,” she goes on, animatedly. “Has to be.”

“And you want to uncover them,” he smiles.

“No. I want to be ready, when people try to round us up, to show what we've contributed all along.”

“Don't say that,” he says, a little too harshly, snapping his head towards her. “That's not happening.”

“I'm being a realist,” she shrugs.

“Then don't,” he adds, like it’s an order.

They stop, realizing they’ve reached the entrance and there's a line, some sort of event.

“Looks like invitation only,” he notes, watching people hand over cards as they approach the two men at the doors.  “

“C'mon,” she says, grabbing his jacket sleeve and heading for the alley.

They turn the corner and it’s a very empty, wide alley.  With a pair of solid looking metal doors shut tight.

“We're going to sneak in.”

“No. Breaking and entering.”

“Great.”  His expression is very droll and disapproving.

“Don't act like you're such a rule-follower, when _you_ want something.”

He did break in with her once. When he was still carving. Into a crime scene. “Fair,” he nods.

She extends a hand to touch the handle and the insides of the door start to rattle.

“What about the security system-“

“Shhh,” she hushes. “I'm concentrating.”

The lock clicks and she pushes the door open, looking very pleased with herself.

“ _That's_ neat,” he says, motioning her ahead of him.

 

#

They both stand in front of it, eyeing the repetition of a twisting pattern crawling up along the side, the central figure in blue, wrapped like it’s in a chrysalis state.

It’s very abstract, but she tilts her head to ponder it.  She can see what the artist was going for, though.  She feels it more than anything.

An Inhuman, painting about Inhumans.

“Huh,” he says next to her, with his hands in his pockets, studying it carefully.   
  
“You have experience stealing paintings, right Phil?” she asks in a low tone.   
  
“Oh boy, this night really _is_ going south, isn't it?”  
  
“The painting. It has Terrigen in it,” she says, shaking her head and pocketing her phone when the readings are confirmed by the lab.

“Of course it does. Maybe we should regroup and plan an op?”

“We can do this,” she says confidently. “Only four guards. We already know where the exits are. It's after hours, this won't go past 11.”

“It almost felt like we weren't SHIELD for a moment,” he adds a bit wistfully, about them walking though the museum like normal people.

“I'm sorry,” she says flatly. “You're right. We should totally go back to base and do the sensible thing.”

“You don't mean that at all.” His eyes narrow, watching her.

“No,” she says, slowly blinking at him.

“What's the plan?” He asks and takes her elbow, starting to walk again as one of the guards strolls closer to them. “Hide in a closet for the next hour or so?”

“We just need to be distracted until we don't. Fit in.”

“This sounds vague, yet troubling.”

“You can pretend to flirt, I’m guessing?”

“Yes.” His eyes have a warning look in them.

“With me,” she challenges him, raising an eyebrow.

“I could. If necessary,” he says with a frown, drawing his mouth into a tight line. 

“You're bothered by the idea,” she smiles, at the angle of his raised chin.

“No. I'm not.”

“Okay. Good.”

“Fine. And of course I still know how to flirt.”

She’s not convinced, though.  She saw him around Roz.

 

#

“Act interested but not too interested. A little _aloof_.”

“I think I’ve got this,” he says with an incredulous look.

“You're, like, the kind of guy that can attract a much younger woman because he's kind of a dick.”

That makes him jerk his head back. “I was thinking art major/failed artist,” he says, looking disgusted. “I guess you, then, like dicks? Is that a safe assumption?”

“Sure.” She grins widely, amused, as he gives her and up and down look at the insinuation in her reply.

He huffs at her. “What am I getting out of this?”

“Is that even a real question?” she asks, crossing her arms.

“You could be inexperienced. Due to your age,” he says with a smirk, looking at the painting they’re standing in front of.

“Not this gal. Nope.” Her mouth is twisted into an insistent frown. “But, total neat freak after.”

“I'm no longer indulging this,” he sighs. “Pick one.” He takes champagne off a passing waiter’s tray and takes a long drink. 

“One what?” she asks, looking around them, making note of all the security guards once more.

“It’s a game,” he goes on, nodding towards the nearest painting. “You choose which one you’d like to step into.”

They _do_ still have some time to kill since there’s sort of the outline of a plan now that they’ve cased the place.

“Okay,” she replies, looking at where he gestured.  She’s not sure what’s going on there, but she’s not stepping into any of that.  “None of these.  We should keep going.”

“How about you?” she asks. “See anything you like?”

“You mean, the paintings?”

She brushes her fingers against his arm, the one with the prosthetic.  She notices him flex a little, but he plays it smoothly, crooks his elbow so she can put her arm through it.

Phil might just have been out of practice after all.

“I like this one,” he says, leaning closer and watching her look up at the wall before them.

She holds onto him but pulls him after her a little playfully so she can read the plaque.

“The Kiss. Max Ernst.  Hmm.” This should be interesting. “What do you like about it?”

“I dunno,” he says. “It seems empty, but not like a wasteland or anything.  Just uncluttered.  Quiet. Not lonely, though. It’s about a feeling.”

“Yeah, it doesn’t look lonely _at all_ ,” she exaggerates. “Art major.”

He flashes her another little warning look, but there’s something of a smile behind his eyes now.

She hasn’t seen that in long time, and finds she wants to hold onto it as he starts moving again.

“This one,” she begins, as she brings them to a stop. “Speaks to my childhood.”

He looks reasonably bothered by the painting of ham and turkey sandwiches with olives for eyes and a mustache plastered over them.  Broad smiles painted on them in mustard.

“Mustard smiley face for the first week for sure,” she says, tapping the tip of her finger to her chin. “When the mustard smiley disappeared…”

“That’s not terrible, or anything,” he says, taking his arm away and sliding it across her shoulder.

He hugs her against his side, and she feels his thumb make small circles against the burgundy sweater.

This time she’s not going to look up at him.  She’s going to hide.  It’s starting to feel real, the flirting. And she’s enjoying it.

Too much.

“It’s also making me _really_ hungry,” she manages.

“You’re _always_ hungry,” he replies, and she flicks hers eyes up to his and holds them.  “What? It’s true.”

 

#

They’re supposed to be _pretending_ to do this, not _actually_ doing this.

Not that she feels guilty at all, with someone that likes that she’s Inhuman, who believes she has a right to be this.

It’s just taken her by surprise, after how things had settled between them, prioritizing the mission and SHIELD.  Other people.

“Daisy,” he moans, and she hears his head hit the back of the closet wall, feels his erratic breathing as their mouths stop for a moment and she gives him some breathing room.

He starts to laugh lowly, his chest is shaking under her hands.

“How?” he asks, like he’s full of wonder.  “How?”

When he says it again with his mouth against hers, and reaches for her in the dark, she lets him pull her in against him and this time, he kisses her.

It feels different when it’s so clear to her he wants her, it doesn’t feel like she just made a dare anymore.  A little whimper dies in her throat when he slips his tongue against hers, and pushes her up against the door of the small space with his hips.

This seems so easy in the movies.

“Ow,” she says, when her hair catches on something attached to the door. “Ow.”

“You alright?” he asks, touching her hair and finding where it’s snagged on a hook. “Let me.”

“Phil,” she starts, as he carefully works her hair loose. “I feel terrible.  That I forgot this.”

“I didn’t want to get in your way.  Make things harder.”  He sounds so unnecessarily apologetic.

“Me, too.  But, I think I’d like you to get in the way.  If that’s okay?”

“I promise I’ll do my very best.”  He sounds so corny, so eager, and when he kisses her again, she knows that’s all true.

She’s missed it so much.

“Hey!”

They both almost fall over as the door to the utility closet swings wide open, but he steadies her with his arms about her waist.

“Shit,” he mutters to Daisy, then smiles at the security guard. “Hey.”

 

 #

She’s sitting on her bed with the painting propped up against the headboard, going through her notes with a half-eaten pizza in an open box beside her when she hears the knock on her door.

It’s Coulson.  She can already tell from the vibrations.

“Hi,” she says, cracking open the door. “We didn’t end up on the news, so that’s good?”

“That _is_ good,” he says, nodding nervously.  “Mind if I come in?”

This is probably going to be “the talk” about how this was a bad idea and now things need to go back to normal because they’re both SHIELD and have a job to do.

“Oh,” he says, noticing the painting.  “I thought that was in quarantine?”

“Simmons cleared it for me to study.”

“Did you learn more about the artist?” he asks, looking down with a twist of his neck at the notes on her bed.

“He’s, uh,” she starts, picking up one of the papers. “Czech.  From the late 1800s.  A pioneer of abstract art.”

“Why do you think he painted with the Terrigen?” he asks, staring down at the man’s picture.  The article note mentions he died in 1957.

“He was into something called Orphism, have you heard of it?”

“No,” he shakes his head, and hands back the piece of paper to her.

“It’s the idea that colors can cause feelings the way music does.”

“Terrigen does have that special kind of blue.  It must mean a lot to your people?”

“Yes.” Then it dawns on her. “Does it make _you_ …feel anything?”

“It does,” he answers, after a moment, studying it.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I just wanted to get a hold of it, I didn’t think about-“

“Not like that,” he puts his hand up to stop her. “It’s…familiarity.  A connection.  Sure, that other stuff happened, too.  More, though, between us?”

He turns towards her as he says it, like he’s looking for some kind of confirmation.

“Oh.”

“I don’t know what it’s like to be in that cocoon, to have powers. But I know what it’s like to feel different.  Changed, like you were born all over again.”

“Do you want to help me?” she asks him, moving closer, searching his eyes. “Learn about this?”

“Yeah, I’d like to.”

She pushes some stuff out of the way so he can sit beside her. “Are you hungry? It’s still warm.”

“I’ll have a piece,” he says, like he’s humoring her and picks the slice of pizza up out of the box and reaches for a napkin tucked into the side.

She grabs another piece and takes a bite as she looks at the screen on her open laptop, tucking her legs under her.

“You know what I liked about today?” she asks, half-distracted.

“What?” he says, suddenly serious in between bites.

“It felt normal."  It's said softly, with a smile in her voice.  “It felt pretty good.”

His face relaxes and he sighs then draws his thumb up against the corner of her mouth as she freezes.

“You had some sauce,” he mentions, sticking his thumb into his mouth and sucking on it.

“Smooth, Phil,” she tells him, meaning to act all casual about it.  What she’s trying to do is thank him, and instead, she leans forward and kisses him softly.

He ends up being the one to say thanks.

**Author's Note:**

> The works mentioned are all found at the Guggenheim:
> 
> Amphora, Fugue in Two Colors, František Kupka (http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/collections/collection-online/artwork/2386)
> 
> The Kiss, Max Ernst (http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/collections/collection-online/artwork/1132)
> 
> Jeff Koons, Sandwiches aka Daisy's Sad Childhood (http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/collections/collection-online/artwork/10733)
> 
>  


End file.
